By Blood & Lyrium {Dragon Age: Inquisition}

Chapter Four: By Your Will, May All Be Done

Hiding in the corner of Skyhold was what had come to be known as the council room. While not used by Tyla and her advisors, it was often used for briefing of troops. It was a fairly small room for its purpose. Too many tables were crammed into the area. It made for a lot of awkward maneuvering and half-hearted apologies. Blackwall had already earned a half-veiled jab from Madame de Fer for trodding on her coattails. Cassandra was rolling her eyes at something Varric was saying to Solas.

Dorian sat on the far end of the room, keeping his distance from the rest of the group. He knew they wouldn't want to sit too close to him. It was the slightest bit fair, he supposed. Even if it rankled him. It was unwise to needlessly step on their toes about it. Their common enemies were certainly not helping his case. The person sitting closest to him was the Tal-Vashoth. The Iron Bull sat in a relaxed slump in his chair, laughing raucously at something said by the elven woman with a rat's nest for hair.

"It seems everyone else has little room at their table," a voice beside Dorian said. Dorian stifled a jump. He hadn't heard anyone approach his table. Perhaps he had been too caught up in his own thoughts. He turned to look up.

Elian stood beside him, long fingers curled around the back of a chair. The elf was no longer garbed in the ratty clothes they had found him in only a few days ago. Instead, he wore a loose-fitting black tunic, dark breeches, heavy-heeled boots, and an ankle-length leather coat with what looked like dark blue wool lining the inside. His hair was still plaited; not woven so tight against his scalp, but instead brought back into a spiral reminiscent of embrium that ended in a cascade across his shoulders. Dorian wondered how long it took to wrangle such long hair into so elegant a presentation. He looked good. Less like a feral highwayman and more like a foreign dignitary.

"You don't mind, do you?" Elian raised a quizzical eyebrow. "It's no trouble to tell me 'no'."

Dorian started a bit, suddenly wondering just how long he'd been staring. He cleared his throat, trying to slide into a more relaxed posture. "Sorry. Seems I was a bit lost in thought." That wasn't a lie. Certainly not the best Dorian had ever come up with. He motioned lazily to the table, "By all means."

Elian brushed back his coat as he sat down. Dorian caught a flash of metal and managed to catch a glimpse of the daggers at Elian's belt. He remembered the cold press of them against his throat just seeing them. They looked much cleaner. There was an ornate insignia of what looked like twisting branches now visible on the blade just above the hilt. The silvery metal shined like a mirror. He wondered at what ore had such a sheen. Elian seemed to have taken them to a whetstone recently. It must have taken hours to get them into this state.

The door at the top of the stairs burst open. Dorian tore his eyes away from Elian and towards the man stumbling into the room. It was the new quartermaster. What had his name been? Morris? He shuffled an armful of papers about, his eyes wide as they roamed over the room. His clothes were fine; a lovely arrangement of expensive silks and pristine embroidery. He stood with all of the presence of a sheet hung up to dry.

Dorian wondered what had happened to Threnn, the previous quartermaster. He knew she had survived the attack on Haven. She was certainly better equipped to the job than this paper puppet. She had run the Inquisition like a navy ship, handing out assignments with such firm-handed authority. There had been no disrespect or prejudice spread under her watchful eye. She'd made him feel welcome. A basic understanding of group chemistry had also seemed to come naturally to her. She had been quick to pick up on how the people under her worked together and where they would be most productively placed. This Morris gentleman surely didn't have near the same bearing.

A few people went quiet as Ser Morris managed to fumble his way to the desk at the front of the room. He dropped the scrolls and parchment down on the table too haphazardly and what appeared to be a map rolled onto the floor. Morris snatched it from the ground, an embarrassed flush visible all the way up to his ears as he sat down. He rearranged his papers once more, drawing his shoulders upward and back. It did little to make him look more assured. He cleared his throat. A couple of errant conversations still continued. Morris cleared his throat again, louder this time. Silence finally fell.